Flexible, p.8
Flexible, page 8
“Why not?” Ann asked. She leaned forward and whispered confidingly. “Did you forget your blocking?”
Lynn covered her mouth with one hand and closed her eyes, obviously struggling to hold her composure.
If Rachel didn’t think it would get them kicked out of Stu’s, she would have flipped the table. “What’s wrong with you two? Why aren’t you taking this seriously?”
Ann snorted.
Lynn leaned forward. She took Rachel’s hand and patted it. “Rachel, it’s not that we don’t take you seriously—”
“I don’t,” Ann clarified.
Lynn shushed her and continued. “Lately it’s been one drama after another with you, and most of them have centered on Lee.”
“That’s not my fault,” Rachel reminded them.
“Actually,” said Ann, “it is.”
Lynn pressed on. “Rachel, think about it. Lee gave you some gifts last year, yes, but you were the one who decided that the gifts were from the Memento Killer.” She lifted a hand to forestall an indignant counter-protest. “I’m not saying there wasn’t reason for concern, but I’m also saying that Lee wasn’t entirely to blame for all of the drama. Also, the entire situation surrounding your fight yesterday is based on your faulty assumption that Lee wrote lines of poetry on the play set.”
“Not one of your finest moments,” Ann observed.
“I still don’t see why that upset him so much! It’s something he used to do all the time, and I thought I’d check with him before I alerted Yolanda so she could investigate whatever it is she’s investigating!”
“I thought Lee made that fairly clear,” Lynn said. “He’s upset because it’s just more evidence that you haven’t realized he’s grown up.”
Ann cleared her throat. “And we all know why that thought upsets him.”
“Not that again.”
“Let me ask you this,” Ann said. “Since you walked in here, have you bothered to ask either of us how we’re doing?”
Rachel blinked. “Well, no, but I invited you both and said I had something to talk about, so I just thought…” This sounded lame, even to her, but she had to say something.
“Which is why you felt justified in sitting down and saying ‘Stop everything!’ and derailing our whole conversation just as Lynn was about to tell me about her doctor’s appointment. Not that you would care about anything like that, since it doesn’t affect you personally.”
As flabbergasted as Rachel was to face this direct attack from Ann, her overwhelming concern for Lynn overwrote everything else. Her gaze snapped to her friend, scanning for clues. “Why did you go to the doctor? What’s wrong? Are you sick?”
Lynn sat back in her seat and sighed. “It’s not a big deal.”
“It could be a big deal,” said Ann.
Lynn blew her bangs from her forehead and fanned herself with a coaster. “You’re not going to believe this, but I had an appointment with my gynecologist this week—”
“Are you pregnant?” Rachel squawked. Other diners turned to look, and she ducked her head, blushing. “Well, are you?”
Ann stared at Rachel. “What is wrong with you?”
“According to you, a lot,” Rachel shot back, still stung. But now was not the time. Her gaze swiveled to Lynn, scanning her up and down. “Tell me.”
“It’s not a huge deal. Dr. Jackson thinks that I’m at least peri-menopausal, or maybe actually starting early menopause. She did some blood tests, which I’m waiting to hear back on.” Lynn took a calm sip of her water. “So, probably not pregnant. Although she did make me take a pregnancy test just to rule it out.”
“Isn’t it really early for you to be worried about menopause?” Rachel struggled with the mental math. Lynn was the eldest among them, but she wasn’t that old.
“That’s what I thought.”
“How do you feel?” Rachel’s eyebrows knitted with concern.
“Mostly I feel fine,” Lynn shrugged, “except for the hot flashes. Waking up in the middle of the night in a pool of sweat with my clothes pulled off has taken some getting used to.”
Rachel’s eyebrows practically disappeared into her hairline. “I bet Alex hasn’t complained.”
Ann snorted as she reached to spear the pineapple from Rachel’s fruit cup.
Lynn laughed. “It’s not a huge crisis.” She waved their concern aside. “And it’s not like I didn’t know this day was coming. I just didn’t think it would be coming this soon.”
“So you want to cancel today’s training session, don’t you?”
“Of course not. If I’m going to be a hot, sweaty mess, it might as well be for a good cause. But let’s wait until evening so that we don’t die of heat stroke.”
“I’m all for that,” Rachel agreed.
Ann cleared her throat. “About the poem you found backstage…”
Rachel took a deep breath, nostrils flaring. She’d almost forgotten.
“The way I see it, there’s no use worrying about what it means until you know who wrote it. If you figure out one, you figure out the other.”
Rachel nodded. This made sense.
Ann continued. “Figuring out who wrote it is the most important thing, because if it’s really taken from a suicide note—”
“I did some reading online, and it turns out Sara Teasdale wrote this poem more than a decade before she killed herself. But still, she did kill herself. Most people point to this poem as a clue behind why.”
Ann cleared her throat. “What I was going to say was that if it really was taken from a suicide note—or has anything to do with suicide—then you should pay attention. It could be that whoever wrote it actually intended for it to be found. Maybe even wanted you to be the one who found it.”
Rachel sucked in a breath. In her relief that it hadn’t been written by a frustrated, lovelorn Lee, and then her subsequent obsessive worry over their stupid fight, Rachel had neglected to consider what other implications the scribbled message might have. “Do you think one of my kids is suicidal?”
“I think you’d better find out.”
~*~
Somewhere in Rachel’s summer travels, she’d fallen out of the habit of reading her Bible every day. The next morning, driven partially by panic, Rachel rose early to read a Psalm and pray before church. If she was going to identify a suicidal student, she was going to need all the help she could get.
Lifting her eyes from the page, her gaze caught a glint of gold. Squinting, she identified a strand of silk directly in front of her face. Rearing her head back in surprise and blinking rapidly, she beheld a tiny spider descending from the ceiling directly at eye-level, its thin strand of webbing perfectly catching the morning light. It would have been beautiful if it weren’t so utterly horrifying.
Rachel instinctively launched sideways on the loveseat, swinging her Bible through the air like a cricket bat. When the book came in contact with the spider, she released her grip, suddenly convinced that the spider would attach itself to the pages, crawl up her arm, and chew off her face. Also worried that the spider was still attached to the web and would momentarily swing back at her like a tiny, eight-legged wrecking ball, she flopped forward and face-planted directly on the carpet.
She came up panting, itching everywhere at once and slapping herself repeatedly.
It was not an auspicious start to the Lord’s Day, nor did it raise Rachel’s hopes that she was the sort of person capable of unraveling a potentially life-threatening and time-sensitive mystery.
Help me, she prayed silently, pushing her bedraggled curls back from her forehead. I really don’t have a chance without divine intervention.
~*~
After such a start to the morning, Rachel did not find herself in the proper frame of mind to concentrate on the worship service. While her pastor spoke on the importance of developing spiritual discernment, Rachel pondered the events of the past week. When was it all going to end—her embarrassment over mistaken assumptions? When would she outgrow her tendency to miss the big, obvious problems while obsessing over the little ones? When would she learn to read the signs, to listen, to pay attention, to examine life as closely as she examined literature?
It was no good to say that knowing was half the battle, because this was a problem she’d known about for a while now—ever since breaking her ankle last spring and suffering the subsequent life implosion. Yet here she was, starting the same cycle again.
As her pastor moved from point to point through his sermon, Rachel doodled a little row of question marks around the references she’d written down: Psalm 119:66 and Proverbs 15:21. Then, out in the margin, she worked on the week’s to-do list. Writing things down usually helped clear her head. Perhaps if she wrote these items down, she wouldn’t need to worry about them so hard.
Grade essays
Find new set-construction director
Check on wardrobe for Murder Came Knocking (budget/availability)
Identify suicidal student(s)
Buy spider bomb
She wasn’t entirely sure a spider bomb actually existed, but it sounded like something that should. A spider bomb would be similar to a flea bomb, except for spiders. If spider bombs did exist, she needed to purchase one immediately. Rachel jolted in her seat as she remembered that awful moment when she’d envisioned the spider swinging toward her face. In her notes, she underlined the words spider bomb and circled them three times.
Lynn nudged her sharply in the ribs, and Rachel jumped again. She glanced up from her list to encounter Lynn’s meaningful look. Lynn then swiveled her head slowly to stare across the aisle.
Rachel followed Lynn’s gaze, and behold—there sat Detective Ian Smith.
10
By the time the service ended, Rachel had worked herself into quite a state. Her hands and feet felt far away, as if there were a delay in the relay between her appendages and her brain. Before the last syllables of the benediction had even faded, she was scrambling to make a plan. “What do I do?” she hissed to Lynn.
“Invite him out to lunch,” Lynn hissed back. “We’ll come too.” She gestured to herself, Alex, and Ethan, who seemed oblivious to all the drama.
“I’m not going to—” But then he was there, standing right in front of her, and she had no chance of finishing the sentence without being overheard. “Hi!” she chirped, propping a hand on her hip and grinning maniacally. Dial it back, she warned herself. You’re overcompensating.
“Rachel,” Detective Smith said, nodding a hello to Lynn and Alex.
Ethan started to say something, but Alex clamped a hand over his son’s entire mouth and pulled him into the aisle.
Lynn drifted away as if to accompany them, but then stopped at the end of the row to sit and adjust her strappy heels.
Rachel didn’t know whether to be angry or grateful. With Lynn listening, she wouldn’t have to try to remember their conversation verbatim to repeat it later. She still needed to focus, though, because Detective Smith was talking, and she was fairly certain that at some point, she would need to respond.
“It’s good to see you again, Detective Smith,” Rachel trilled, hoping this matched whatever he’d just finished saying.
“Please,” he said, “Call me Ian.”
Call-Me-Ian. She struggled not to giggle insanely. “Oh. Well!”
“I’m here to talk to Craig Lewis about our churches getting together for a winter outreach campaign,” Detective Smith said, as if Rachel had done the sensible thing and asked him why he was here.
Craig Lewis was one of the church’s associate pastors. “He and I are both too busy to meet during the week, so Craig told me to come by and meet up with him after the service.”
Just past Ian Smith’s shoulder, Lynn stood up and cleared her throat. After catching Rachel’s eye, Lynn jerked her head and mouthed something incomprehensible. Rachel’s gaze darted back and forth between Detective Smith and Lynn while her brain attempted to fire on all cylinders. It was no use. She was in full synaptic collapse.
Lynn must have discerned the struggle, because instead of tactfully withdrawing, she scooted over to join them.
“Detective Smith,” Lynn greeted him warmly. “I’m Lynn. You may remember me from that night.” That night, she diplomatically called it, rather than its rightful title, The Night Rachel Went Bananas.
The detective shook Lynn’s hand. “I remember you.”
Of course he remembered Lynn. She’d likely come across as the only sane person in their entire group.
“We were just going to head out to lunch, if you’d care to join us.” Lynn smiled.
Rachel could have kissed her. Or slapped her. Or excused herself to go throw up quietly into a paper bag. It was a toss-up.
Lynn shot Rachel a meaningful look.
“Yes, please join us,” Rachel said.
Ian’s gaze flicked from Lynn to Rachel, then his eyes crinkled around the edges. “I wish I could, but I have that meeting.” The corners of his lips turned up in the barest hint of a smile. “Maybe next time.”
~*~
“What do you think he means, next time?” Rachel asked Ann as they drove from the church to Stu’s to meet up with Lynn, Alex, and Ethan.
“How should I know? You were the one talking to him, not me. I got trapped talking to Miss Graciela, remember?”
“About what?”
“Who knows. I wasn’t listening. I was too busy watching you trying to keep it together.”
“How did I do?”
Ann flicked on her blinker and glanced over her shoulder. “I was across the room at the time, so I can only go on what I saw. Your face looked normal. Well, normal enough.”
“Normal enough.” Rachel let out a short, sharp laugh. “I should add that to my online dating profile.”
“You have an online dating profile?”
“My theoretical online dating profile.”
“I know what would have made the situation even better,” Ann said.
“What?”
“If Call-Me-Matt had shown up today too.”
“Oh, my word.” Rachel’s voice dripped horror. “Don’t even speak it. Hopefully we’ve seen the last of him.”
“I still think you were too hard on him.”
“Too hard on him? He practically stalked me. I thought he was a serial killer.”
“You think everyone’s a serial killer. Granted, Matt came across a bit strong, but that could have been because—wait for it—he liked you. It’s not his fault that you flipped out and thought he was going to kill you.”
“In my defense, there were extenuating circumstances,” Rachel said.
“Such as you being a paranoid lunatic.”
Rachel sniffed. “I’m not worried about Call-Me-Matt anymore. If he hasn’t been to church all summer and hasn’t returned since the date that I told him I’d be back, there’s likely little to worry about at this point.” She pushed up her sunglasses and tilted down the sun shade as they drove through the full brightness of a Florida afternoon. “I’m sure he’s found a new woman to stalk by now.”
~*~
First class periods were always awful, but first periods on Monday mornings were something else entirely—something from one of Dante’s inner rings. Not even Rachel’s Sneaky Coffee took the edge off. Only the fact that they were to discuss Shakespeare gave her any hope that she could endure.
“As much as I look forward to reading all the essays that you wrote over the weekend,” she lied, rubbing her eyes, “I’m looking forward even more to delving into Act II of Much Ado About Nothing this week. In this act, the main plot elements really kick into high gear. In the week between the proposal and Claudio and Hero’s wedding, the rest of the characters conspire to trick Benedick and Beatrice into falling in love with each other. I hope this isn’t giving too much away, but a week is plenty of time for Don John to work out a new plan to make everybody miserable.”
Ryan immediately raised a slim hand.
“A question already?” Rachel wrapped her hands around the Sneaky Coffee. “Lovely.”
“I think Beatrice is miserable enough already,” Ryan said.
“Beatrice?” Rachel blinked rapidly, absorbing this. “Miserable? Explain.”
“All Beatrice does is complain and make fun of people. Especially Benedick, but pretty much everybody else too.”
“Give examples.”
Ryan flopped his hands against his desk as if to say where to begin? “Well, OK, there’s that part where they’re talking about Hero’s wedding and Leonato tells her that he hopes she’ll be married one day just like her cousin is, and she basically says not until men are made of something else—”
“Not till God make men of some other metal than earth,” muttered Jessica Potts darkly. She looked as if she’d had a rough weekend herself. Not that she looked bad, per se. Jessica Potts never looked bad. Her hair was smooth and shiny, her face carefully made-up, her school uniform crisp and fresh, her fingernail polish unchipped. But something seemed wrong around her eyes. If Rachel had to guess, she’d say that Jessica Potts was wearing exactly one pound of cover-up. Conversely, this crack in the façade made Rachel’s heart soften toward the girl. Rachel understood the struggle of a deep eye-pit.
“That’s right, Miss Potts.” Rachel nodded.
Shayla entered the fray. “I like when Beatrice has this whole conversation with Benedick when they’re both wearing masks. She knows it’s him and just makes fun of him repeatedly to his face, calling him a fool and stuff. But I don’t think she does that because she’s miserable. She does it because she’s awesome.”
“She’s the worst,” Ryan argued. At a few shocked glances from his classmates, he blushed and backtracked. “OK, not the worst. That’s Don John. But I still think she seems really mean.”
“When people are mean, sometimes there’s a reason.” If Alice Claythorne had tossed a hand grenade from the back row, she couldn’t have caused more surprise. She never volunteered comments.
Rachel noted Chris stiffen in his seat, his substantial eyebrows pulling together. He cut his gaze back toward Alice without really turning to look at her. Then he nodded once.
